


Lynchpin

by kameo_chan



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-02
Updated: 2011-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 01:23:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kameo_chan/pseuds/kameo_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Riordan, in the final moments before his death, reflects on the life he has lived and the man he has loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lynchpin

_He can sense the Archdemon long before he finally spots it flying low over the burning ruins of Denerim. Its aura of menace is miasmic, beyond stifling. It is hideous, even this far off, and Riordan takes a deep breath, calculates with quick looks and quicker wits how fast he'll need to run and how far he'll have to jump in order to land atop it. Then, for a moment, everything slows down, fades to grey. He closes his eyes and lets sensation overwhelm him. The thunder of battle becomes the beat of his heart; the pulse of so many Tainted creatures so close by the flow of blood in his veins._

 _Everything, all of it, narrows down to a point so fine it is almost non-existent. And when he opens his eyes, he starts running with nary a thought as to doom or direction. He jumps, blind as faith and ready as sin._

\----

A warm fire crackles and spits merrily on the small hearth of a rented room in a wayside inn. Riordan doesn't know the name because he doesn't pay such things attention unless they demand it, and to him, it is just another nameless inn near a nameless little village. Duncan though, Duncan would know because he takes great pride in being Warden-Commander of Ferelden, and with that pride comes a curiosity about the land he must defend.

"What is the name of this place again?" Riordan asks on a whim, just to prove himself a point. Duncan is sitting across from him, nose buried in a book as he is wont to do when not out slaying hordes of Darkspawn.

"The Golden Tap. And if you're wondering, we are about two leagues from Lothering," comes the immediate response, and Riordan smiles to himself. "I take it the interest is trivial?" Ever the observant one, Riordan thinks. He cannot think of a single time in which Duncan hadn't known exactly what was going on around him.

"True enough. I was merely wondering how much you know of your home, my friend." Riordan lifts his half-full chalice of wine from the table, swills it thoughtfully and then empties it in one long swallow. "Maker only knows I should know as much, and yet I don't."

"That is hardly your fault," Duncan says, putting his book down and casting him an unreadable glance.

"I suppose so," Riordan sighs, and rakes a hand through his hair. "It is just frustrating. I am Fereldan in blood and bone, and yet each time I return from Orlais, I feel more a stranger. I can feel it, Duncan. Even that bright young recruit of yours thinks me nothing more than a high-brow Orlesian fop."

"Alistair thinks the world of you, Riordan and you know it," Duncan counters quietly. "As do I. No matter how _Orlesian_ you might become, you will always be a son of Ferelden so long as the blood of Highever flows through your veins." And with a swift motion, Duncan captures his hand and gives it a firm squeeze.

Riordan looks at their hands, fingers intertwined and throws his head back as a sudden laughing fit takes him. "My dear friend, here we are playing at being young and full of fire, when in fact we should be bemoaning every ache and old scar!" But then the laughter passes, and Duncan still has his hand clasped in his own; is watching him with the same intensity he normally only reserves for battle and reading.

"Aren't we too old for such things by now?" he asks, not meeting Duncan's eyes. The only sound is that of the fire, and Riordan feels as though his heart is about to burst with things he hasn't felt for many long years. And then Duncan leans forward and presses a warm kiss to his brow.

"Even if we were to live to a hundred, I would never think us too old for this," Duncan whispers against his temple, and Riordan smiles warmly, reaches out and pulls the other man as close as he can manage.

\----

 _The landing is harder than the jumping had been. The beast beneath him is all slick-smooth scales and hard, knobbly spikes and Riordan battles for purchase as the Archdemon bucks furiously to throw him off. The wind howls in his ears like the maddened cry of a thousand rage demons, and all that he can see is red and black, black and red. It is only when it feels as though the dragon will cast him off at any moment now that he, whether by fate or fortune, manages a firm handhold._

 _His sword flashes silver before his eyes, movements almost mechanical, and then steaming ichor spurts scaldingly across his hands and arms. The Archdemon lets out a hellish bellow, and the sound seems to travel along his spine to burrow straight into his heart. It speaks of fear and fury, of hate for the things that follow it as well as the ones it seeks to obliterate._

 _It is the sound of certain death, and Riordan is so caught up in it that he almost doesn't see the flaming tower that suddenly looms from the smoke like a forgotten giant. The choice is clear. The tower or the dragon. And without thinking, Riordan takes a second leap of faith._

\----

"Harder," he whispers frantically, incoherently even as he presses his too-hot face to the cool scale of the gauntlet on his right arm. At first he doesn't think that Duncan has heard him, but then the angle changes and Duncan moves inside him, against his innermost core and Riordan cannot help the moan that escapes him. The rhythm is rough and fast, exactly the way he likes it and Riordan feels as though he's melting. Duncan shifts even more, hits that almost intangible spot again and again, making heat pool low and tight in his belly.

"Duncan, please," he breathes, and Duncan reaches a hand around, fondles him awkwardly while pressing blistering kisses to the back of his neck. "Maker, oh Maker! Duncan, Duncan!" he cries out as his orgasm builds and washes over him. He comes hard enough that black spots dance across his vision, and it isn't long before Duncan follows, hips jerking wildly as he spends himself.

He is out of breath and his muscles burn furiously, but Riordan heaves a satiated sigh and allows Duncan to help him straighten up. His back protests, but he cannot find the will to pay it any mind.

"Are you all right?" Duncan asks a little unevenly, still pressing fevered kisses to his skin. Riordan manages a wheezy laugh, and feels one of his more recent stab wounds pull threateningly. That it hasn't reopened at all is a wonder, but not one he wants to pay any attention to right now. No, the only thing that commands his attention at all right this instant is the languid heat of Duncan's body pressed against his own.

"I suppose so, though I think I may have to ask Hadrian to look me over again tomorrow morning," he answers. Duncan's hands roam his sides gently but possesively, as though marking territory. Riordan knows he's counting scars and taking note of injuries, but the motion is reassuring, and he lets himself relax underneath the touch. It is a rare treat for them to be alone like this, with their companions asleep and the camp quiet. It is a deception, he knows, but a well-kept and treasured one nevertheless.

They lapse into a comfortable silence, with Duncan petting and stroking every inch of Riordan he can lay his hands on and Riordan letting go, allowing Duncan to see him at his most vulnerable. There are no words for moments like these, stolen and elusive glimpses at what might have been once. But for now, it is enough to have the comfort of Duncan spread warm and strong against his back and all the things they cannot allow themselves to say hanging sweet and ripe in the still night air.

\----

 _He knows he's made a mistake the second his sword starts slicing through the leathery membrane of the Archdemon's wing. He can feel every nick and notch of the blade trying to desperately catch hold of the tenuous flesh, as though it is part of him. But the dragon flaps all the harder for the pain he causes it, winging furiously upward as though it means to bring him to the Maker Himself. It is too little too late however, and when his sword shears through the last foot of the dragon's wing, the creature lets loose an ear-splitting shriek._

 _And then he is falling, tumbling through the sky like a stone thrown from a tremendous height. His stomach roils and his heart hammers in his throat, and the sensation is both curious and terrifying. The only thing in sight is the dim, bloody red of a war-torn sky. He feels cheated. It was never meant to be this way. It goes beyond the Archdemon and the Blight, beyond Loghain's treachery and the deaths of countless of his comrades. It comes down to only one thing, and that thing is Duncan. And Riordan has time to think,_ There wasn't enough time, never enough time for either of us; _before he crashes into the paving of the city streets and everything is swallowed by darkness._

\----

He is more nervous than he can ever remember. He has heard all sorts of wild stories about this Joining ritual, each more unpleasant than the last. And really, when he thinks about it, he probably has reason to be, if the faces of his fellows are any indication. Riordan has never felt like more of a bumbling country fool than he does now, outclassed as he is by Chevaliers and knights on all sides, all of them tough and capable.

"Those nerves will kill you if you let them," a voice behind him says suddenly. Riordan turns at the words and finds himself face to face with one of the other recruits. He cannot be much older than Riordan himself, and back in Highever, Riordan would still have been no more than a boy. He is handsome in an exotic, rugged way that turns more than a few heads, and Riordan thinks he can see why. It is the self-confident way he carries himself, as though he isn't merely a recruit, but already a Warden fully fledged. But there is also a wisdom and a hardness about the young man's features that instantly inspire a strange sense of sympathy and kinship in Riordan.

"Duncan," the man says, extending a hand, and Riordan takes it almost gratefully, glad for the distraction. "Formerly of Highever and the Free Marches, currently of the back alleys of Val Royeaux."

"Riordan, also formerly of Highever. Quite possibly now also of Val Royeaux," he responds and receives a grin in return. It is both odd and welcoming to find a kindred spirit in a foreign country and amidst strangers.

"Well met then, Riordan of Highever. Welcome to the Grey Wardens," Duncan says and claps him on the back. And despite being far from his family and uncertain of what lies ahead, Riordan feels as though he has found something he never knew was missing. It feels like belonging. It feels like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> Internet, I am disappoint. There is a heinous lack of Duncan/Riordan fic, and this is my sad little attempt at rectifying the situation. I've kept more to the Codex and original game descriptions than the novels. Still invoking artistic licence to mangle the plot for my own nefarious needs.


End file.
